


Captain Of My Soul

by Vesania94



Series: Masters Of Our Fate: The Heroines of Thedas [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Andrastianism, Chantry Issues, Circle of Magi, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Mage Hunter, Mage Rebellion, Mages and Templars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-11-29 07:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11436282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vesania94/pseuds/Vesania94
Summary: The anticipated rewrite of Captain Of My Soul!Grace Trevelyan thought she had left her past behind as a Hunter for the Chantry -sent off to a specialized school to learn how to track apostates from an early age, and brainwashed into complicity through faith. Now she finds herself at odds with the very organization that gave her the skills that got her this far in life. She fights the overwhelming loss of her partner, trying to find acceptance from people who would rather kill her than trust her, while trying to save a world she feels she will not live to see.





	1. Reverie

**Author's Note:**

> It matters not how straight the gate  
> How charged with punishments the scroll  
> I am the Master of my Fate.  
> I am the Captain of my Soul.

 

Pain was the first thing Grace was conscious of, like knives tracing each vein and capillary in her arm. Spots of black cleared from her vision as she opened her eyes to the gloomy guttering light of a single torch, illuminating the cobbled tiles of a cell floor. Shackles clinked on her wrists, almost drowned out by the crackling green slash across her left palm.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now.”

Grace glared angrily at the woman who had walked into her field of view, heraldry gleaming on the battered breastplate she wore.

_Seeker._

The Seeker continued, approaching Grace angrily. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone in attendance is dead. Except you.”

“What do you mean, everyone’s dead?” Grace asked, blinking away the last of the spots from her vision. The Seeker seemed to ignore her, pushing into Grace’s face.

“What did you do?" 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You’re lying!”

Grace fought the urge to spit in the woman’s face as she was hauled backwards, more forcibly than she expected. She felt her hands warm. It would be easy to blast her way out of the room. All it took was one spark.

The door slamming open interrupted both of their thoughts, a redheaded woman stepping confidently into the room, grabbing the Seeker’s shoulder.

“We need her, Cassandra.”

Cassandra let Grace fall back onto the floor with an undignified thump, the shackles clinking loudly.

“Look, I don’t know about anything that happened at the Conclave! What happened? What do you mean every one is dead?” Grace yelled, wincing as the strange mark crackled violently. Cassandra looked at her and then looked at the redheaded woman, as though searching for answers.

“It will be easier to show you.”

They pulled her to her feet roughly, shoving her through doorways and up staircases until she was shoved out into the light. Grace blinked hard, eyes watering at the sudden change in environment. Green light filtered through the heavens and stained the landscape in a sickly, eerie glow. Grace found her hands reaching for her neck, grabbing at the little gold chain that lay there. Her brain fumbled for an appropriate reaction, furiously going blank at the sight of the destruction before her.

She had woken in hell; some kind of demonic reverie like something out of a nightmare.

“Andraste’s mercy…” Grace whispered, steadying herself as a host of soldiers blasted past her, sending blasts of frozen air through her tattered clothing. It stung her nose as she inhaled, eyes going wide as she realized that her armor- her second skin, was missing. No wonder they suspected her, the mage in black. Without proof of office or Handler to vouch for her, she was just another apostate. 

“We call it the breach.” Cassandra’s voice started Grace out of her thoughts as they cast their gaze back to the huge rending tear in the sky. “Some how, you are the only survivor to come out of it.”

“You’re joking,” Grace gasped, taking an unsteady step forward. The mark on her hand spat angrily, causing her to grasp at it, as though her touch would soothe the burning agony. Cassandra braced her as she sunk against the stones.

“Your mark seems to be connected. And it is killing you,” the Seeker explained gently. “Do you understand me?”

Grace’s eyes were still watering as she looked up at the sky again. “Of course, Lady Seeker. Whatever it takes.”

“Then you’ll–“

“I’ll help. I don’t care what happens to me, but if I can help, I’d rather risk my own life than anyone else’s.” Grace’s phylactery sputtered around her neck, almost as though it was begging her to stay behind. “I have to.”

* * *

 

Her ears were ringing from the explosion on the bridge. She rolled onto her left side gingerly, coughing as dust settled into her nose. Hands flashed brightly in front of her with the bright green, healing the cuts and scratches from the stone chips that continued to rain onto her.

“Get behind me!”

She looked up in time to see a monster rise from a patch of ice, bellowing and swinging razor sharp claws at the Seeker’s shield. A split second decision sent Grace scuttling backwards as wards surrounded the pair of women. Cassandra’s brow furrowed at the sharp scent of peppermint that filled the battlefield, glaring backwards at her charge before continuing her own assault on the demon. Grace continued to fumble backwards as the mark raged at the flow of power through her skin, sending her toppling backwards onto a pile of crates as another demon reared its head out of the ice.

Grasping fingers closed over a staff; roughly hewn but serviceable, partially broken in the explosion. It started splintering under her hands as she lashed out with fire and frenzy, clearing the area under the bridge in a few moments. The staff groaned under the weight of her power as she executed the last demon. Within moments of its last wail of pain, Grace found herself pinned to the ice by the razor sharp sword of the Seeker.

"Drop your weapon. Now." Cassandra’s voice was as cold as the ice they were surrounded by.

Grace glared at her darkly. "You know as well as I do Seeker, I don’t need a staff to be dangerous.”

“I do know that. And I know what you are, Hunter.”

Grace’s head dipped, though even she could not tell if that was from acknowledgement or shame. “Yes.”

“Where is your Handler?”

This question made her wince, almost curl up into herself. She looked up at Cassandra with welling tears in her eyes, hand instinctually curling around the phylactery, warm against her chest. She struggled to say the words as Cassandra knelt down next to her, gripping her shoulder.

“Hunter, where is your Handler?” she asked again, far more gently.

Grace blinked away tears, hands shaking. “Ostwick Tower.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

Grace pushed out of the woman’s grip and dusted herself off, raking fingers through her hair as she walked towards the Breach once again, trying to put as much distance between her and the Seeker as possible. “We have a battle to win, Seeker. I’d see it done first.”

The pair rushed up the hill, hearing the sounds of fighting grow louder. Cresting the rise, they saw a bright green slash through the air, and a group of people clustered around it. An elf rushed up to her and grabbed her marked hand. Grace grimaced at his surprisingly tight grip as he shouted at her and thrust her arm into the light. With a large crack, the split in the air snapped shut. 

"Well, at least this thing is good for something." she sighed. 

"Let's just hope it works on the big one." A gruff voice behind her sighed. She turned to see a dwarf shouldering an intricate crossbow. "Varric Tethras, at your service."

"Nice crossbow," Grace remarked as she retrieved a new staff from one of the corpses nearby, her own starting to crumble in her hands.

"She is isn't she? Bianca's one of a kind."

"You named your crossbow Bianca?” Grace snorted, rolling her eyes. She watched Cassandra groan in disgust.

"She'll be great help in the valley." Varric said as he smiled.

"Absolutely NOT," growled Cassandra.

"Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your men aren't in control anymore. You need me."

"If there are to be introductions," the tall elf strode up beside her, causing Grace to jump. "My name is Solas. I'm pleased to see that you yet live." 

Varric nudged her, "He means he kept that thing from killing you."

Grace looked up into the elf's eyes. They were sad, if not outright cold. "Thank you" she said, honestly, hoping the warmth of his smile would touch his eyes in some way. He had already turned to the Seeker.

“She’s an exceptionally powerful mage, but there is no way that any mage could wield the power necessary to open this.”

Grace stiffened as a flash of light shot pangs through her mark and she eyed the Breach warily. This didn't go unnoticed, as Cassandra ushered their little group onwards, glaring at Varric.

“So, we’ve all had our names shared, what’s yours?” Varric asked, jogging up to the group.

“Grace. Grace Trevelyan.”

“Trevelyans are out of Ostwick right?” Varric asked. They had stopped at a ladder. “Didn’t know they had a daughter!”

“Most people don’t know about me anymore,” Grace answered, almost whispering. It earned her a quizzical look from Varric and Solas, and a sympathetic one from Cassandra.

“Because you were sent to the Circle, yes?” Solas asked. Grace shrugged.

“I suppose.”

A withering glare from Cassandra cut the line of questioning off as they made it to the forward camp.

Grace was immediately bundled towards a far table, where a rat-eyed, weasely man was screeching to the red head that had been in her interrogation room earlier. When he caught sight of her, his barrage of complaints immediately turned to her.

“I want this prisoner bound immediately and transported to Val Royeaux for execution!”

“No.” Grace turned to face Cassandra who was looking her in the face. Cassandra’s eyes flicked between Grace and Leliana.

“You would dare–“ the squirrely man started, but Cassandra took a single step between them.

“You do not have any authority here, Chancellor. She can be trusted." 

“Cassandra,” Leliana whispered in warning. They looked back at Grace again.

“Regardless of what happens after, we must get her to the Breach,” Cassandra said more imperiously. Leliana nodded.

“We can charge the Temple, or we can take the mountain pass, though we lost a full compliment of scouts up there a few hours ago,” Leliana said. “What do you think we should do?”

Grace stiffened, her feet snapping to attention. “Take the pass, my Lady, with any luck we’ll encounter your missing scouts.”

“Are you sure Lady Grace?” Cassandra asked, glancing sideways at her.

“Best not to lose our whole army if this doesn’t work, Lady Seeker,” Grace muttered, frowning. “I don’t need anyone dying on my account.”

She pushed through the small crowd towards the gate, before falling to her knees as the mark flared, biting her cheek so hard she tasted blood. She could feel it pulling at her strength, sapping at her consciousness as the green light flickered and flooded her vision as she hauled herself back up, brushing frost and snow from her knees. She ignored the worried glances that passed between the groups of people watching her. Better her, than anyone else in that crowd.

She had nothing to live for anymore.

* * *

 

They found what remained of the scout group next to a large rift, spewing demons and monstrosities. Grace could feel the mark calling to the rift, and reached towards it, feeling the edges of the veil under her fingertips. They sang a painful, mournful song as she pulled them together, matching edge with ragged edge as she snapped them together, watching the demons that had fallen out of the tear disappear as their source of power waned. It took the breath from her.

“You’re getting quite good at this,” Solas encouraged, trying to make her smile. Grace frowned.

“Thank you,” she said politely. She didn’t mention how wearing sealing the rifts was, as it sapped her energy and made black spots dance in her vision. It was getting worse the closer she got to the Breach, each step feeling like a weight was pressing down on her, every inch a new arc of pain racing down her arm like a hornet beneath her skin, buzzing angrily.

The caldera was ringed by ashen corpses and charred stones, some still wearing the remnants of clothing and armor. Grace tried her hardest not to look at them as she moved into the still warm crater. It reminded her of the aftermath of Kirkwall, where survivors had been clawing at their stone coffins, begging for anyone to save them, some just begging for death. The memories hit her heart with an additional pang as she saw her Handler’s face swimming in her mind. She wished he was here now to take her hand and tell her that everything would be all right. That he was there to track her down. That someone had her back.

As the giant rift in the sky opened up a final time to release its hell upon the world, she knew that no one here had her back. She was as guilty as the person who caused this destruction. She found herself fighting for her life, but poorly, letting blows hit her, leaving marks of their damage on her skin.

“Are you mad? Close the rift now!” Cassandra yelled. Grace barely heard her over the din of executing a flurry of demons. She gritted her teeth and thrust her hand towards the crackling rift, her hand burning with pain and tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. She could feel herself being pulled upwards and she tried to dig her toes into the ground. Her vision tunneled, black creeping into the edges of her sight, until all she could see was a pinprick of light.  
  
A huge crack rent the air, and she felt her knees give out as she slumped to the ground.  
  
The last thing Grace remembered was a firm pair of hands gripping her shoulders, and Cassandra shouting, "You did it!" before she slipped into blissful blackness.

 


	2. Safe Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though all before me lies in shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.

Consciousness came slowly as Grace flexed her hands, groaning as feeling surged back into her body. Her head ached, like a dozen druffalo had been dancing on her skull. The sound of splintering wood shook her into wakefulness as she bolted upright on the bed, startling a short-haired elven woman.

“You’re awake!” the woman squeaked. Grace blinked at her, bringing a hand to her face. She grimaced and squinted at the hand, realizing that it had been splinted and bandaged, the sprain throbbing. Shaking her head she sent a flash of magic through it, healing it instantly. The elven woman looked shocked at this cavalier display of power.

“What happened?” Grace asked groggily. “The last thing I remember are demons pouring out of the Breach.”

“You.. You sealed the Breach, my Lady. It’s all anyone has been talking about for three days.”

Grace looked at the woman in confusion. “I’ve been asleep for three days? What happen-“

“Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve awoken,” the elf interrupted, backing towards the door. “She said at once.”

“Wait! Can’t you tell me what-“

“At once, she said!”

The door slammed and Grace found herself alone in the room again, her only light the sputtering fire and subtle glow from the quiet mark on her hand. It had stopped aching, now only occasionally sparking brilliant green lights from its center. Her opposite hand shot to her neck, searching for the familiar warmth that usually rested between her breasts, panic rising as she found it missing.

“No. No no no, where is it,” she muttered, digging through the tattered remnants of her clothes that lay in a pile next to the fire in a panic fueled haze. They appeared to have been cut off of her roughly. Her eyes darted around the room, finally fixing on a fresh pile of clothing that had sat next to her bed, the tiny delicate vial resting on top. Her fingers clutched at it, pulling it to her chest, cradling it like an injured butterfly. It fluttered in her hand, her blood swirling in time to her heartbeats. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as she lowered the thin golden chain around her neck. She still ached, her body protesting as she pushed off the floor and grabbed the soft, warm clothes that had been left for her. They hung on her limply, too big for her starved form. Her stomach growled, emphasizing the lack of food she had eaten in the last month. Steeling herself for the shouts of fury, the calls for her execution, she opened the door.

The talk went silent as it creaked open, the crowd of eyes turning to  look at her as she stepped into the afternoon light. A few mothers hid their children behind them. She looked away, hunching her shoulders against the cold. Then the whispers started.

“It’s the Herald!”

“Chosen by Andraste herself!”

“She saved us! A mage!”

Grace felt warmth rushing to her cheeks as she pushed through the crowd towards the Chantry. Herald? Herald of what? She almost laughed at herself. ‘Chosen of Andraste’ indeed. Maybe once upon a time she would have believed them: that she was special. Now she just wanted to hide away, wash the blood from her hands and forget. Just forget about the women, and men, and children who she had killed.

Forget about Marc. If that was even possible.

The Chantry was eerily quiet but for the shouts of the Seeker and the wheedling voice of the Chancellor. Grace flinched as she heard the sound of a metal guarded hand on aged wood, quietly secreting herself next to one of the statues of Andraste.

“I cannot see the path,” she intoned quietly. More shouts drowned out her quiet prayer  as she looked carefully back towards the door at the very back of the Chantry. “Perhaps there is only abyss.”

“She was sent by the Maker in our time of need!” Cassandra’s voice came ringing through the stone hall.

“She is a suspect, and should be tried as such!”

“Trembling I step forward, in darkness enveloped,” Grace whispered, willing herself to sink into the floor.

“She is not a suspect, Chancellor Roderick.” Leliana’s voice hissed like fine silk concealing a dagger. “It is possible that whoever caused the explosion died with it. It is also possible that they have allies who still live.”

“I am a suspect?” Roderick yelled, wheeling around the corner, motioning towards Grace. “I, and not this woman who came out of nowhere?”

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.” She turned and looked at him dead in the eye. Chancellor Roderick cowered under her direct gaze, backing into Cassandra.

“We will do this with or without your approval, Chancellor,” Cassandra growled, shoving him off of her.

Roderick’s face fell into a snarl as he pushed his way out of the group of women, huffing towards the entrance. Grace felt the eyes of the Seeker and Leliana turn to her.

“Are you well, Herald?” Cassandra asked. Her voice was surprisingly tender.

“As well as I can be, I guess,” Grace answered, shrugging. “What were you talking about, ‘do this with or without your approval’. What is ‘this’?”

Leliana and Cassandra looked at each other before leading Grace into the sunlit chamber and through the tiny door. A beaten, leather bound book lay in the center of a rickety table.

“This, is the Divine’s directive. Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who would bring order amongst the chaos.” Leliana turned to Cassandra. “Is this wise to do now? We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.”

“We don’t seem to have a choice.” Cassandra spat. She turned her eyes on Grace. “I’m afraid we must ask for your help again, Herald.”

“You need my help. Forming the Inquisition? Are you sure you want me?” Grace stammered, eyes falling on the book.

“The people see you as a symbol. If we are to succeed without the backing of the Chantry, we need someone who has as much power, if not more. That is you.”

Grace swallowed hard and nodded. “I understand. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” A small smile graced the Seeker’s face. 

“Now, let’s get down to business.” Leliana said, pulling  the door open once again. “You should meet the rest of us.” A short, bronze skinned woman walked in, holding an enormous tablet that was covered in notes. She was followed closely by a tall, blonde man, who ducked to get under the door jam. “This is Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and liaison to the nobility.”

Josephine curtsied briefly, before laying down some papers on the table. “A pleasure to meet you my lady.”

“This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of the army of the Inquisition… such as it is,” Leliana continued. He bowed slightly and smiled at her, unaware that Grace felt her world shatter into a million pieces.

She could see it now, smell it even; the blood and the shattered stone, the death that leaked through Kirkwall’s streets. Screams of terror as small groups of Templars tried to keep order. She could see a woman – a broken, bloodied woman – trying to restore order alongside them. She heard the roaring of wind through the Gallows as the horrifying remnants of the previous Knight-Commander were sealed away as it sung.

“Herald? Herald! Are you alright?” Leliana hissed, shaking her. It broke Grace from her trance, startling her.

“Sorry. My head’s been spinning a little bit. I’m alright though,” Grace apologized. Cassandra pushed a chair towards her and Grace sank down into it, running a hand through her hair. She left it on her head, shielding her eyes from the Commander. “Where do we start first?”

Leliana rolled out a large map of Ferelden and Orlais, smoothing down its corners. “The Hinterlands. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”


	3. Distant Thoughts

Cullen watched the woman nod her head and hurry out of the room, almost over eager to escape from their presence. She was a mystery; that was for sure. 

“You’re staring, Commander,” Josephine teased, elbowing him. He elbowed her back, gently.

“She seems familiar, like I’ve seen her before,” he mused, thumbing his chin. “Regardless, I don’t think she likes me. She wouldn’t even look at me after she heard my name.”

“Do you think she could have been from-“ Josephine started. Cullen shook his head, interrupting her.

“I was with those mages for nearly ten years, Ms. Montilyet. She is not from Kirkwall. Cassandra, you know more about her. You trust her, obviously. Where is she from?”

Cassandra was tightlipped, instead deferring to Leliana, who put a piece of parchment on the table.

“Grace Trevelyan,” she said quietly. “Formerly of the Ostwick Circle of Magi. Phylactery: unaccounted for.”

“So she’s an apostate,” Cullen groaned.

“Every mage is an apostate now, Commander,” Leliana corrected, rolling the parchment up. “But I did not say her phylactery was destroyed. I merely said unaccounted for. It could still be in Ostwick Tower.”

“And yet you both seem so certain it still exists,” Cullen grumbled. “What aren’t you telling me about her? You know where I know her from, don’t you?”

“We are all allowed our secrets, Commander,” Cassandra chastised. “You weren’t precisely forthcoming with your background either.”

“She practically fainted at the mention of my name!” 

“She’s had a trying week. Leave it alone, Cullen. I’m sure she’ll warm up to you in time. I’ll see what I can do when I’m with her out in the Hinterlands,” Cassandra griped, leaving the room.

Cullen looked pleadingly at Leliana, who shrugged and linked arms with Josephine, exiting the room. He would just have to find out about the Trevelyan woman on his own.

* * *

 

Outside of her cabin, Grace stretched her arms towards the sky, ambling towards the smithy. It was a surprisingly clear day, almost disturbingly normal as the little town of Haven bustled around her. The families and soldiers of the Inquisition went about their daily lives around her, occasionally stopping and pointing or waving at her. She smiled gently at them as she passed by. Some of the children hid behind their mothers as they watched her pass, wide-eyed and unblinking as they watched their ‘Herald of Andraste’.

The smithy was warm, sweltering fires driving away the chill of the mountain air. Ducking her head, Grace passed under the low hanging rafters towards the back of the forge. A grizzled, scarred man looked up from the blazing fire, soot and flakes of metal littering his hands and face.

“Ah, Herald. I was wondering when you’d be showing up.” 

“You’re the forge master?” Grace asked, shielding her face from the heat with her hand. The bellows roared as the man pulled a glowing hot slat of iron from the coals, passing it to one of the many assistants that milled around the workshop. 

“Aye. Name’s Harritt. I’m in charge of kitting you out.” Harritt grumbled, beckoning her roughly towards a closed door. “You’re smaller than I expected, but look fairly muscled for a mage. I’ll have to make adjustments.” 

“Thanks?” 

“Don’t thank me, Herald. You’re just making my life harder,” Harritt continued to grumble. “You’re one of those mages who likes to think they can really hold themselves in a fight, aren’t you? You think you can make it on the front line? Well it’s my job to keep your ass alive, Herald, and I can’t do that if you’re bent on killing yourself by making stupid decisions.”

Grace felt her face fall into a sneer of disgust. “Are you going to arm me or not?”

“Oh I will. This way, Herald.”

Harritt pulled the door open and slipped into the little cabin. Grace followed close behind. It was a barren little shack, with a limp bed tucked into one corner, and the walls covered in sheaves of spears, piles of half completed swords, and half completed armor. Harritt reached under the bed and pulled a low chest out from under it.

“These were found outside of Haven a few days ago, wrapped and buried in the snow beneath a tree. They look about your size. Why don’t you try them on?”

Grace could feel the blood draining from her face as the chest flipped open, revealing a buttery, black leather coat, and a matte breastplate. There was a slight sparkle as the crest on the breastplate caught the light, the glittering Sword of Mercy bright in the gloom. Harritt smiled.

“So it is you.”

Grace took a step backwards. “How much do you know?”

Harritt took a deep breath, snapping the chest shut. “Enough that I’m not going to tell anyone. They say that villages are cursed when the black mages come. But, I think you’re possibly our best chance for survival, eh Herald?”

“You’re… not going to tell anyone about me?”

“I told the Seeker, but she told me keep my trap shut and to ‘make the Herald her damn armor’. But I’m not going to tell anyone else. I like keeping my skull,” Harritt said, shrugging as he pulled out another low chest. “I’ll keep it safe for you, as it’d be a shame to waste such good armor. However, this is yours if you don’t want to advertise yourself to the entire populace of Haven.” 

He passed her a bundle of metal and fabric, chain clinking against plate as she shook out the deep crimson leather that surrounded it. The breastplate was emblazoned with the eye of the Inquisition, shiny and new under her fingers. She looked up to find herself alone. Exhaling, she quietly changed into the fresh armor.

The door creaked open as she tightened her belt, stepping back into the forge. Cassandra, Varric, and Solas were tacking the horses, a large chestnut mare waiting next to Cassandra. Grace picked up a staff from a rack, hefting it in her hand and testing the weight. She frowned slightly. It was lighter than she was used to, but serviceable. It crackled slightly with her magic as she looped it over her back, sliding two daggers into her belt. 

“Herald! Welcome to the party!” Varric shouted. Grace smiled at him, gently approaching the chestnut, stroking her velvety nose. Cassandra was watching her, almost waiting to help her up. Almost effortlessly, Grace swung herself up into the saddle, turning the horse around in a tight circle.

“You ride?” Cassandra asked, mounting up on her stallion. Varric and Solas followed suit.

“She seems to be quite experienced, if you do not mind me saying Herald,” Solas replied.

Grace hunched a little in the saddle, eyes casting downwards. “I am a Trevelyan. We rode before we could walk.”

“Of course,” Cassandra said nodding. “Now, shall we be off?” 

“To the Crossroads,” Grace confirmed, smiling. The thunder of hooves echoed through the mountains as they left Haven behind, its timber walls fading into the distance.


	4. Travelling

The rocky outcrops of the mountains faded slowly into sparse evergreen forest as the quartet road lower and lower into the Hinterlands. Grace pulled her coat tighter around her as the sun sunk in the sky, tingeing the clouds orange and pink.

“It’s nearly dark,” Varric called forward from his place behind Grace. Cassandra scoffed.

“Hardly. If we stop now we will not make it in time to meet Mother Giselle. She is expecting us.”

Grace shivered, gently petting the chestnuts’ neck. “Cass, it is getting dark. It would be better for the horses to rest. We can’t push them all night.”

“The Herald is right Lady Pentaghast,” Solas piped up from the back, slowing his horse down to a lilting walk. “The horses are tired. And I think it would benefit us all to be well rested to meet with the Holy Mother.”

“I have a name,” Grace hissed, rolling her eyes in the elf’s direction. Solas shrugged.

“And it is a very fitting one, Herald. However that does not change what you are.”

“What I am,” Grace responded, her teeth gritted, “is a person. Not a figurehead. Not a leader. Not a weapon. I am a person.”

“And yet you still seem like you have to specify that,” Solas remarked, pulling his own horse up short. “This seems like a good spot to camp.”

Cassandra made a low huffing noise, pulling her black stallion up and turning it in a tight circle. “It’s exposed. I don’t like it.”

“It’s out of the wind Seeker,” Varric chuckled. “I think it’s better than being completely exposed.”

“Ugh.”

Grace dismounted smoothly, leading the chestnut to a sheltered area beneath a fir tree. “Will you two stop arguing? We have a camp to set up.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and dismounted, roughly helping Varric off of his own horse. Varric dusted himself off and patted his roan on the flank, gently leading it to the fir tree that Grace was beneath.

“You going to be up to roughing it Herald?” he asked, cocking his head to one side as Grace unbuckled the saddle and slid her bags to the ground.

“Not all of us stayed locked in a tower, Varric. I may be from Ostwick Tower, but I didn’t start there.”

“Ha! Sounds different than Kirkwall,” Varric laughed. Grace dropped the pack she had picked up, her hands shaking.

“Herald? You ok? Don’t tell me you’re from that cesspool,” Varric asked, picking up the pack.

“No. But I’ve been there before,” Grace whispered, taking the bundle back. “I’ll never forget it. It was terrible.”

“Did you ever get a chance to visit The Hanged Man? That place was terrible. But it was the best tavern in Lowtown, which is saying something.”

“I saw it, but I never had the chance to drink there,” Grace answered quietly. Varric looked up at her, and grimaced at her expression. Her eyes were staring off into the woods, through the leaves and undergrowth, into some memory that haunted her.

“Hey… How are you holding up?” he asked, his questioning gentle as they unpacked one of the heavy cloth tents. “Most people don’t get to experience the Seeker’s particular brand of interrogation, and then go to being her best friend in a day, let alone getting thrown from a jail cell to being the next chosen one.”

“I–“ Grace paused, frowning. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I can barely keep anything straight.”

“Well I’m glad you’re not totally crazy,” Varric laughed. Grace smiled at him, finally righting the tent poles. “Though you might want to consider running at the first chance. These kinds of stories don’t usually end well.”

“Honestly, if it ended well, I’d be surprised. My story hasn’t been too kind to me as of late,” Grace murmured. She turned to see Cassandra fussing with the campfire as Solas set up the other tent.

“Cass, don’t worry about that. I can do it,” she called over. She walked over, carefully rearranging the firewood. Blowing into her cupped hands, Grace coaxed a flame into life, licking at her fingers and placed it gently into the center of the fire pit. The air filled with the smell of wood smoke and peppermint, causing the entire party to inhale gratefully. Grace poked at the fire, tending it expertly as she hummed quietly to herself.

Supper was a quiet affair, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Grace started to drop off as the fire burned lower and lower, the murmur of Solas chatting away with Varric fading into silence.

Varric watched Grace drowse off into slumber in front of the fire as he threw anther log on, eyeing Cassandra across the splash of sparks.

“Spill, Seeker.”

“About what, dwarf?” Cassandra said, glare matching glare.

“What’s her story?” Varric asked, nodding towards Grace’s sleeping form. “She’s no circle mage. Starting fires and setting up tents? Back in Kirkwall half the mages couldn’t even navigate a city street let alone ride a horse.”

Grace twitched in sleep, her face contorting into a frown. Varric threw a blanket over her.

“I do not know.”

“That’s nugshit and you know it Seeker.”

“She isn’t going to tell you, Varric. I suggest you let it go,” Solas chuckled, rising slowly from in front of the fire. “In fact, I suggest that you also go to sleep. We will have an early day tomorrow.”


	5. Ashes

Grace smelled smoke when she woke up, and could feel the earth under her hands, cold and clammy after the night’s chill. She stretched and settled back against the person sleeping behind her, basking in their warmth. They smelled like elfroot and lyrium, the sharp metallic smell cutting the more medicinal smell of the herb like a sharpened knife.

“Good morning my love.” It was a familiar male voice, and she sighed to herself.

“Good morning Marc.”

“Open your eyes Grace,” Marc said to her, stroking her hair back from her face. His hands were cold, colder than the soil they lay upon.

“You’re cold,” she complained, shrinking away from his fingers.

“Yes.”

Grace frowned to herself. The lyrium scent was getting stronger, mixed with the stronger smell of copper and iron. The smell of fire changed from that of wood to that of char and flesh, wrapping her in a cloying blanket of haze. She coughed, pressing herself up onto her hands and knees as her arm started to throb with pain.

“Something– something’s not right Marc,” she coughed, blinking her eyes open against the smoke that had started to envelope her.

Marc reached his hands out towards her, his chest and hands soaked in blood that ran in rivulets from a gaping wound in his armor, the ground she knelt in quickly becoming sodden, her hands sinking into mud and goo. Grace tried to claw herself away quickly, sticking to the ground as Marc’s hand wrapped around her arm. The pain increased tenfold as she felt her skin burning and blistering. Screwing her eyes shut, she screamed.

She was still screaming when she opened her eyes to the camp, face wet with tears, hands sparking with the beginnings of flame.

* * *

 

The camp erupted into chaos, Cassandra ripping her way out of the tent, and Varric and Solas tumbling out of theirs, bleary eyed and fumbling with weapons, shouting at once.

“What’s going on?”

“Herald, are you alright?”

“What the fuck was that?”

Grace had huddled herself in the blanket, trembling and coughing as she struggled to catch her breath. “It– it’s fine. It was just– it was just a dream.”

“More like a nightmare if you ask me,” Varric grumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “That’s one set of pipes you have on you. We’ll be lucky if you didn’t wake everything up in a three mile radius.” Taking a breath to continue complaining, he withered under the combined glare of Cassandra and Grace.

“Nightmares can be dangerous without the proper precautions,” Solas said, his brow falling into a disapproving scowl. Grace turned her glare to him.

“It wasn’t a demon, if that’s what you’re implying, Solas. I can protect myself from the Fade.”

“But not from this dream?”

“Not from that kind of dream.”

Cassandra sheathed her sword and hauled Grace to her feet roughly, walking back towards their tent. “We should break camp quickly. Unfortunately, Varric is right: your scream was quite… alarming. We should get on the road as quickly as possible in order to get to the Crossroads without incident.”

In rapid order, they broke camp, packing the horses and making their way down the road in record time, the sun barely rising in the sky as they travelled deeper into the pine woods.

They crested the rise above the Crossroads at midday, Grace handing off the chestnut to one of the many Inquisition runners already at the forward camp. Slinging her staff onto her back, Grace turned to see a dwarven woman saluting her smartly.

“Inquisition Scout Harding at your service, Ma’am. We’ve all heard about what you did at Haven, and while I know you may not be expecting the warmest of welcomes, you’ll get no backtalk here.”

“Thank you­,” Grace replied, shaking Harding’s hand smartly. “What’s the word at the Crossroads?”

“We’ve located Mother Giselle, but unfortunately the rogue Templars and the apostates got here before you. Most people you meet don’t want to be part of the fighting, but these guys… they don’t care who gets hurt.”

“Is the Mother safe?” Cassandra asked, marching up beside Grace.

“She’s tending to the wounded, and we have a guard around her position, but you won’t be able to get to her until we clear the fights between us and her.”

A loud ratcheting sound caused the group of women to turn towards Varric, who was gently polishing the stock of his crossbow. “Well then, let’s go introduce ourselves.”

The group quietly obscured themselves in the underbrush, creeping along the outside of the path until they heard the sound of fighting. Varric was watching Grace carefully, looking for any sense of hesitation and fear that he usually saw on inexperienced mages, but he saw none. In fact, she looked rather calm,

Like a lightning bolt Grace vanished from her spot in a haze of blue light, throwing herself into the fray followed shortly by Cassandra. She felt the rush as she sent her staff twirling around her, alternating sheets of flame with fresh barriers. Her blood sung to the skies as she wheeled around hand extended to grasp for a hand–

That wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. He would never be there anymore. 

“Marc–“ 

The clattering of a sword off her barrier brought her crashing back into reality as the final Templar swung his sword once again, his hand raised and ready to rip her magic away from her. Grace felt for one of the daggers in her belt, ready to lunge upwards at a moment’s notice.

“Herald! Duck!” Varric yelled from behind her. Grace dropped like a lead weight, hearing the ringing twang of Bianca’s string as the Templar fell backwards, dead. Grace rolled over from her spot on the ground and rubbed a sprinkle of blood off of her face.

“What happened?” Cassandra asked, clasping her hand in Grace’s and hauling her upright.

“I’m fine. I­–“ Grace shook her head, trying to clear it. Solas had run up to her and was checking her head for marks. “I wasn’t hit, Solas. I’m fine.”

“You froze. But you didn’t look like you would freeze until you did. What messed you up so bad?” Varric asked, passing her a handkerchief. Grace sopped some more of the blood and grime off of her face as. 

“I was expecting a– a friend there. And they can’t be. Not anymore,” Grace sighed, turning her head away. Her hand gently touched the portion of her breastplate where her phylactery rested. She brought the handkerchief back up to her face, and wiped at her eyes. Cassandra nodded solemnly.

“This friend that good in a battle?” Varric asked, raising his eyebrow. 

“He was the best,” Grace sniffed, dabbing at her eyes again. “I don’t know if I could trust anyone at my back like that again.”

“You’re pretty good in a fight yourself too, Herald,” Varric said, elbowing her gently in the hip. “You just don’t look like you’re used to fighting alone.”

“You’re awfully curious, Varric." 

“I’m a writer. I like stories,” he chuckled, looking Grace up and down. “I’m just trying to figure out what yours is. Because these kinds of stories rarely end well.”

“If I die, I’ll be the first to tell you all about it,” Grace laughed, wiping away the last of her residual tears.

* * *

 

The meeting with Mother Giselle set Grace on edge. The smell of acrid smoke lingered around the crossroads camp, combined with blood and mud and cheap oil from lamps and cooking fires. It reminded her too much of the refugee camps in Kirkwall, the piles of rubble she and her fellow Hunters had picked through, searching for the broken but still living bodies of mages buried deep in the Gallows. The moans of the wounded sounded so similar, yet so different, unmuffled by layers of rock and refuse.

They left solemnly, performing what little services they could to the area before heading back towards the camp to pick up their horses. Grace patted the chestnut gently before mounting up. The sun was already setting in the sky.

“We’ll make for the base of the mountain and camp there. Is that okay Cassandra?” she called over to the Seeker.

“Lead on Hearald.”


End file.
